


Bloody Meadow

by SketchLockwood



Category: The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses (2016), The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7159976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>March 1461</p><p>Towton retold in the midst of Lancastran victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

March 30th 1461  
'Bloody Meadow', Towton. 

 

The cold was finally biting through the thick leather of his gloves. His armour felt heavy, and his body screamed in complaint. Yet he had not removed it in so long, her felt it may have frozen to him. Why had he returned to this place? Why had he felt this was what he should do, what he must do? Bodies still lay, the digging of the mass graves had begun, though it was hard to tell. Edward of York stood in the forest, his frame he hoped obscured by the great oaks. He leaned against the bark, hair falling annoyingly over his eyes, though he could not think to move it, could not think to do much more than watch - watch as they began to clean up the carnage which had yesterday been lost. The carnage he had justified in the name of vengence - in the name of revenge for his father's death and brother's murder.

 

In the name of a justice which just had not come. 

 

Now, most of his army lay dead and why? Because Norfolk had not shown his face. Among the notables was Faucanberg. A loss Warwick had confirmed when he had grabbed Edward by the arm, pulling him toward the horses and toward escape. An escape which had been so close to being stopped, for Somerset himself had been on their trail. He had been the one to make pursuit, a pursuit most expected. Yet they had managed to make their way from that field and from immediate death. That was why he did not know what had brought him back to the field...

 

He had been about to move, about to return to Warwick at their camp. Yet he had frozen, frozen as movement suddenly caught his attention, movement closer than he had realised. Men were lifting the bodies of dead men, throwing them into pits with no dignity. One man atop of another, with little regard for his status. Edward cursed silently, Lancastrian tyranny, how had they let it go this far, only to lose it all at the last moment? 

Of course, Warwick had told him it was not all lost. As the two men had sat, daring not to light a fire to warm themselves in the frozen darkness, he had whispered that they would get more men, that they would regroup, that... Edward had stopped listening after that, he had stopped caring for Warwick's words. For he had seen the battle over, and with it their hopes stamped out. 

 

He could not see more, no more of this devastation. He stepped back, his tread almost silent until the twig snapped beneath his foot and then, then those men stopped, and their eyes like hawks were upon him. 

 

***

"M'Lord." The men dragged their prisoner into the tent, throwing him onto the floor. "Fand 'im we di' in the wodes yonder." 

 

Somerset rose from his seat, approaching with a careful step, lifting his prisoners head with two fingers. "By the blessed virgin, Percy come here." Northumberland joined the Duke, looking at their prisoner they shared a glance. "Why if it isn't York's brat, now York himself. Edward, how kind of you to join us." Somerset backed away as their prisoner spat in insult. "Now, now." He smirked. "I wont have that, if your vile discharge had hit my boot, I would rub your face in it before you licked it clean. Foul creature." His voice was low when he started again, crouched before York, holding his jaw so he could not look away. "Where is Warwick?" The boy tried to shake his head, not wincing as the back of Somerset's hand connected with his cheek. "Where?" 

 

"Burn in hell."

Somerset sighed, raising to his feet. "Take him to York, drag him behind a horse if you need, but make him talk." He spoke to Northumberland. "If you cannot, then I shall be there anon, and when I arrive, I myself shall make his tongue loose." 


	2. Chapter 2

Her hand stroked his cheek, a tender gesture almost loving. She ignored the blood dripping from his chin, ignored the tears that left his eyes as he sobbed; almost defeated. She hushed him, her fingers gently combing his hair whilst her other hand softly lifted his chin. “Hush sweeting, hush.” She murmured. “Open your mouth.” When he didn't she sighed, using a gentle finger to move the flesh of his lip, revealing her man's handiwork, the four teeth remained discarded on the table, slicked with blood. “I can make the pain go away.” She soothed. “Ned.” She spoke his name as though it were familiar to her, as though she was close to him. She smiled softly as his eyes lit momentarily with hope, as he forgot for just a moment his predicament. “Yes, I can make this stop.” She stepped away, releasing him suddenly. He winced as his jaw slammed shut with the sudden force, pain soaring through his every inch. “It is such a shame to see such youth, such beauty so needlessly wasted, but you need to tell me where Warwick is.”  
  
“I don't know.” He pleaded. For a moment she believed him, but only a moment. She stood motionless, silent, for several minutes, just looking at him. Edward of March, now Duke of York had always cut a dazzling figure she recalled. From the first moment she had seen him, a small boy with hair as blond as the Normandy sand, and hazel eyes speckled gold, his skin soft and pale. Then when he had first come to court, a boy of twelve, though he had looked younger, then suddenly from a small boy, he had grown to be a stalwart man. Big of build, with toned muscle. His hair had darkened, though fairer than his fathers, and his features not as rugged. She had of course expected he would break sooner, despite his outer strength. She had not expected to loyalty, had expected he would be as fickle as a child. Yet despite the pain they had inflicted on him, despite his lack of sleep and lack of food, despite the blood that lined the floors, he had not caved.

 

That she had to admit was admirable. Admirable, and stupid.

 

“Tell me the truth, Edward.” She continued as he said nothing, only his raspy breaths filled the chamber. “I remember, telling a little boy in Rouen that I do not like liars. It is a sin to lie and deceive, and yet you are guilty of it time and time again. Now tell me where Warwick is.” She suddenly shouted. “Tell me!”   
  
“I'd rather die.” He muttered, spluttering blood as she nodded to man beside him, who in turn sent a blow to the young Duke's abdomen.   
  
“That can be arranged, but not until Warwick is beside you, and then you can die together. As it seems you are prepared to die for him, I am sure that thought will bring you comfort in the long days which you are to face.” Marguerite left the chamber then, she said nothing more to the Duke as she left, slamming the door shut behind her.

 

***

He had hoped for an end, a merciful end. He had hoped that this man would be his executioner, that he would slip with his knife, or else that he would take mercy. He had hoped that Marguerite would see sense, that she would see he would not talk before he broke, that he would be allowed to have peace before he met his death when they found Warwick – as surely they would. Yet he had not been so lucky.

 

Edward stood, hands chained to the wall above him, forced to stand upon the end of his toes, where now he had stood for several hours, whilst a collar of spikes held his head firm. Each inch of him screamed, he felt the rats scurry around him, felt the cold upon his skin, though it did nothing for the fever he already felt invading his body, burning his flesh. This was how they left him, for the nights when they took their rest, he was allowed none. So pitiful was his situation that despite the new torments he knew it would bring, he had begun to rejoice in the flickering candles which greeted him as his gaoler arrived.

 

“The Queen.” His Gaoler spoke as he entered the room. “Sends her regards.” Edward's eyes fixed on the man, unmoving as he placed the candle on the table, followed by the bowl in the man's hand. “She also had pottage sent, so you could break your fast. Somerset however, well his grace is not so kind of heart.” The young Duke wanted to scream as his tormentor lifted the bowl, tipping it so it's contents hit the floor. “He says you should starve. Unfortunately for you, I am not in the employ of the Queen but of my lord Somerset, and he wants payment in blood-”  
  
“I have paid-” He was cut off by a slap.   
  
“How dare you interrupt me.” He stepped back, suddenly calm once again. “He has demanded I spare you no mercy. I am to do whatever it takes to make your tongue loose.”

 

***

_Damn him._

 

Warwick cursed, kicking the tree in his rage. One of his own retainers had told him the news, one of his own men had seen Edward go back to that field, had seen him and had not stopped him. Richard Neville could barely contain his anger, could barely fathom how stupid that boy had been.

 

Their cause now was as lost as ever it had been. If it had not died with Richard of York at Wakefield, or with their loss at Towton, it had died when Edward Plantagenet, the stupid Duke of York had made his way back to that site only to fall to the hands of their enemies – enemies whom Warwick knew would spare the boy no mercy for his youth. That was unless the boy spoke. On that thought, Warwick grew only more irritated. Of course the boy would talk, of course he would let slip where his comrades were heading. Of course he would not be able to hold his tongue and of course...

  
Warwick's thoughts moved to Johnny. Johnny who had not crossed his mind since their defeat at St Albans. Johnny who would now be dead. Dead if Edward had talked, dead perhaps if he had not.

 

_Of course he has talked._

 

Warwick could not stop his internal monologue, he could not stop the thoughts. Of course, despite his anger, he could not blame the young duke. Under such pressure, any man would do well to hold their tongue, and under such pain, men had gone insane and rambled for much less. That did not mitigate their situation, it did not help to cool his anger.

 

All that helped was the young man knelt beside him. The young man who was silent. Edmund Beaufort, the younger brother of the Duke of Somerset said nothing, he held his silence like no man Warwick had known. Held his silence like the earl could only pray Edward would. Yet it was not for his silence Warwick rejoiced, nor did his silence irk the earl. His presence brought joy for one simple thought, for as long as this Beaufort was alive, so too was Johnny, like a vital bargaining chip in this complex game.

 


	3. Chapter 3

John Neville dabbed the damp cloth over sweat drenched skin. This had been, would be, the only comfort they received from their captors. Of that he was sure. No sooner than he had heard the battle had been lost to Lancaster, John had given up all hope of release, of life. He had known all too, well was not foolish enough to be falsely convinced that his life was to be counted in anything but days. So long as Warwick was free, so long as the rumours that Somerset's own brother was both prisoner to Warwick and alive, John knew he would be alive, though his death warrant had been signed.

He knew he would live just long enough to see Warwick again, moments before his head was severed by the axes blade.

That thought even for a man so convinced of his own death, was one too much to bare.

Mercifully, he did not have much time to dwell, not as he felt his cousin twitch, another set of tremors running through his body so uncontrollably. John did not know what to do. Not as he once more dabbed his cousins skin, not emotionally, not psychologically. Whilst so much of him was in despair, despair that Ned had found himself victim to this tortured captivity, but somewhat quite oddly, he too was overjoyed. Overjoyed for the company, overjoyed that these, his last days, would not be spent alone.

Such joy soon died however as the door to their dank cell opened, and Henry Percy, the last man John wished to, or had patience to, see strutted in as though he himself had served victory at Towton. As though he himself was king. John did not do what he knew was expected, what he knew Northumberland wanted. "Lord Montagu, your legs do appear to be broken." The arrogant arse spoke, John tried so hard to ignore his words, to train his mind and body not to react violently. Not to snap the wicked who're son's neck in one swift move. Ned did not need that, Ned did not... "Stand up!" Northumberland's words interrupted his thoughts, and before he knew it, John Neville was on his feet, controlling shaking hands. Control he could not exercise as Percy's eyes fell upon Ned. "As for you." He gripped the boy as he body still shuddered violently, Percy's grasp at the shoulders pulled him from his bed. No sooner than he was lifted, the young Duke lost control of his head. With the crack that filled the room, John Neville charged, head bowed as he rammed Northumberland's abdomen, watching as with an umph, the Earl hit the wall.

John paid little attention as his cousin hit the floor, his neck laid at an awkward angle.

***

Warwick did not know what to do. This was one of.those rare moments in which he did.not.think seeking counsel would help. Within his tent sat several men. Men he would have once valued, men he would have trusted above all, men whose.company he would have been thankful.for in.some past life. Things however had changed. The Earl knew only too well that he could trust no one. Foolish he thought, bloody foolish. Yet he could not shake.the feeling, not.as he.looked at those who surrounded him.

His uncle Faucanberg was the oldest, the person Warwick now.could trust the most. The man may be old, he may be haggered thought Warwick, but he was not past his prime. No, even if.the old man was greying through the thin layer of hair he still had, and his beard growing through silver, his.mind was still.brilliant. Warwick had always said, always had to.justify to Edward his placement of his uncle within the ranks at Towton. For even if the man had been.short of.muscle, which he was not, he held.the military experience of a veteran. A veteran.who had survived his part in the cursed French war which had brought this great country such disaster.

Beside the old man was George Neville, no.more a warrior than Warwicks daughters, but a.clever man with motive. For.whilst George Neville may be a priest thought Warwick, he too had lost his father to.murder in this county that January. He too had endured the degradation accompanying the displaying of heads on York's walls, and he too had a brother held.captive.in York. Yet somehow Warwick could.not trust him. He could not bring himself to wish himself in the company this man so recently from York. This man who could have been bought by Lancaster. This man who said he was loyal to the house of Neville, who has sold his loyalty to the pope and had made his way to.Warwick with little more than a scratch to show for it.

Then there were the others. Norfolk, the Duke who had shown so.conveniently late that the battle had.been lost. William.Hastings, a squire of Edward father's, and of course Edmund Beaufort, who was forced to sit always in Warwicks presence as though he were a pup. At that thought Warwick laughed, so openly he gained looks of perplexion. God how cruel.fate was that he should be glad, find comfort in the presence of a Beaufort. Christ what had the world.become?

How he wished above all that Johnny could be here. That he had not been captured in the chaos of the retreating ranks at St Albans. Things could have been different. They could have been saved. He could have had the face of.just one man he trusted.in this tent.

Except... Except he was not sure he could trust Johnny any more. So long with Lancaster. So long. So many men had been turned by far less.

He did not wish to.think more of that. Could not. Instead with a slight crack in his voice he spoke. "Gentlemen. In the face of defeat we are still together. Together with the remnants of an army. A force I propose we rebuild with haste." There were slight cheers in his.company. "I say we have men flock to.our banners, and once more show.Lancaster that we are, can.be great Lord's. That it is we who will rule England and damn it this time we shall win."

"And when Edward of York is in their captivity?" William Hastings interjected.

"We do not need him with us, not so long as he is alive. We shall.storm.York.and with victory will come prosperity. We shall reclaim honour, and then, we shall claim England."


	4. Chapter 4

He awoke suddenly, sitting in his makeshift bed, his skin slicked with sweat despite the cold. Richard Neville could not recall the last time he had experienced a dream so foul. He could not be so sure it was dream, and as heavy as his eyes felt, he could not be sure he had slept at all. He could not be convinced this was not the image given by God to a madman. For it had felt so real, how he had heard the dripping, dripping like it was in his ears. He had looked around, only to see nothing, that was until the dripping of water on stones had stopped for only a second before it had resumed, this time he had felt the thick liquid drip onto his hand. This time he had looked around, greeted by the greyish walls, he had looked to above. Dripping from the walls were those mangled heads. Save Edwards too had joined them, along with Johnny's. 

Christ, were they dead? With that thought he stopped dead as he stood, his feet unmoving on the frozen ground. Would it change things if they were, could it? 

Of course, Warwick was not foolish enough to neglect the true answer. This had all gone too far for the deaths of two men to change things. No, Warwick knew he could not crawl on his knees and beg for mercy at the feet of the Lancaster Queen, for he would certes find none. No, if they were dead, if this was a message, a prophecy given to him by God then there was naught he could do to change it. 

York's death would be inconvenient, and Johnny's tragic. Whilst he would avenge them, he could not afford to lose his focus for even a moment. He could not take his mind from that blinding prize. He could not rest soundly until a York king sat comfortably, peacefully on the throne of England. Whilst Edward of York had been his man of choice, whilst he had indeed possessed all the attributes of a fine king, his life could prove to be disposable yet, for did not Cecily have two further son's who could take his place? Though Warwick recognised the risks, recognised he would need to fight for them, would need to be their protector, he saw little alternative. 

Indeed as he thought of it, as his mind was allowed to so dangerously wander, for only one moment he could not help but accept for Edward of York what he could not for Johnny, that he did lay cold, his head beside his father at Micklegate. heR or truth, he could not rest lightly with the knowledge that it had been that young fool who had, in his inexperience refused guidance, such guidance which could have seen Towton their victory. Yet that boy had let the power of a single victory over one crushing defeat get to his head, and unsurprisingly he had exceeded himself. So determined had he been that Norfolk might join them in time, that he had neglected his right flank. A move proven fateful as the left flank of the Lancastrian ranks had come down heavy upon them. No damage limitation could have come soon enough to prevent the carnage. 

With that he snapped his mind away. With that he found himself awake, more certain than he had recalled being if his own intentions. His foot found its way neatly to his prisoners ribs. "Wake up." He barked. "We march." 

***

The fool. Margaret of Anjou looked at the man with burning eyes. Somerset stood beside her, whilst her son sat before him on a chair. Her son she saw passed judgement as much as she. He looked the part of the king he would be. He looked the part of the king he should be, could be. If only... if only her husband had not made a blunder. If only her husband had been half the man of his father's reputation... 

But he was not, and on that she could not dwell. Not when she had more pressing issues. Concerns of more substance. She could not let her mind be taken over not when the man in front of her pleaded. Henry Percy was not a likeable man, nor was he from a likeable family. Indeed, she had been grateful to the Percy's for their part in this. She was indebted to them, that she could never deny. Yet she did not like them, could not trust them. No she was not convinced where their true loyalties lay, with Lancaster, or with their feud against the Nevilles. She could not help but wonder, if the Nevilles wore the red rose of Lancaster, would the Percy's wash their white? Would they then fight for York?

In that moment she could not doubt it. Not as she glimpsed the pathetic mess before her. Whilst this Percy had a personality she could hate, he had an appearance she could loathe. A wiry man, with a thin face and too long nose and eyes the colour of a muddied boot, his hairline thinned and his mouth seldom set into anything close to a smile. Yet it was not his unattractive appearance which now held her attention. As he knelt before he had Neville blood upon his hands. Had it too upon his clothes. 

"You are dismissed." She uttered, her lips setting into a thin line.

"Madam, I-"

"I said you are dismissed! You may leave!"

"To go about your business-" Somerset offered. 

"No, you may leave York, return to Alnwick, or Bamborough or whatever God forsaken castle you choose!" She stood, forcing Lord Percy back, away from her steps. "You insult justice, you insult me! Do you not know? Are you a fool?" She looked then to Somerset, seeing his anger as it soon all made sense. "Untouched, unharmed, that is what Warwick demanded. Unharmed. That John Neville be given to him unharmed was his price for Edmund. Now, now we cannot honour that-"

"I thought with our victory-"

"You did not think!" She offered. "You thought of none but yourself! None but your profit and your feud, but this is not about you, nor is it about Edmund." She looked to Somerset, seeing the young Duke nod. "It is about my husband and my son, and his birth right. I do not much care about a Neville, and as for York..." She trailed off, picking up as though she had finished her words. "I care for the man who is still out there raising forces against us. I care that this, that your stupidity will not have quashed his resolve, but instead you will have bated the bear. You have made our enemies more desperate and you have made them more dangerous. Do you think now that Warwick will not hear of his brothers blood upon our hands? Do you think he will rest?" No reply was not good enough, Margaret felt herself about to snap, pulled back only by her son's presence. "You had better hope Northumberland takes up arms for you Lord Percy, because if it does not, God Damn you, if it does not it is you who will burn in the fires first."


	5. Chapter 5

“Shut up.” Warwick snapped to the young man. “If you do not stop spewing your putrid venom, then believe me I shall have you killed and I will not bat an eyelid as they slit your throat. Your brother will not know for many days, perhaps weeks to come.” They were sat on fallen trunks around a raging fire. Edmund Beaufort, their most unwelcome guest, had not for a moment fallen silent from his threats and idle promises.   
  
“Walls have ears Warwick, he will know.” Beaufort replied, his eyes fixing on Norfolk. Warwick too looked to the man he already doubted, he could not help the paranoia which now bubbled in his mind. He could not help but remember that Norfolk, Norfolk whom Edward had favoured over even himself, had failed to show at Towton. Norfolk whom had seen the battle lost. Norfolk whom could have been with their Lancastrian enemies.   
  
Yet Warwick could not help but grin. Norfolk, the swine, rose himself from his log, laughing as though Beaufort had told a most hilarious joke, that was until the Duke’s humour fell dead and with one hard punch, Beaufort’s nose spilled blood. “Arse.” Norfolk muttered as he walked away. “Dick I, I would not tell them. I am not in the employ of Lancaster, I am not.” The Duke almost pleaded for belief, for a forgiveness he claimed he was not owed. It did not tickle Warwick’s amusement as it may have in situations less tense. No. He could not afford to see the humour of this, not with Johnny’s life…  
  
He could not acknowledge where his thoughts went then. Over the days which had passed, he had been unable to stop his spiralling emotions, his belief that indeed Johnny was dead. From cool acceptance, a burning hatred, a desire to revenge much stronger than he had ever known filled him. His father’s death had been intolerable, with a grief so deep Warwick had been sure it would kill. John’s death, that had sparked within him a grief which Warwick knew would kill. Kill any man who fought for Lancaster, or any man that thought of it.

Norfolk’s words were cut off, the Earl rose to his feet so quickly and so violently that the log rolled away. “God damn you all! If I find a single one of you should feedback to Lancaster, should even try, if I find that a single treacherous whoreson is in my presence? You’ll be hung, drawn and quartered on my authority.”   
  
“Dick, that is enough-“ Faucanberg offered.  
  
“No uncle, that is not enough.”  
  
“Yes. It is.” The older man stated. “No one would blame you for dispatching our prisoner to his god Richard, but to make accusations against your friends, your kindred, what has this become?”

No one spoke, no one so much as moved for a minute before Warwick stepped away, storming into the night with his uncle close behind. “Leave me-“  
  
“I will not leave you in this mood. Christ it would be suicide for you, and the murder of us. You will walk to York, and then what would be your plan?”  
  
“To avenge my father, and Thomas, to avenge Johnny and-“  
  
“You do not know John is dead.” Faucanberg shrugged, though it was lost in the darkness.

“He might be, and so might Ned-“  
  
“Edward of York is a foolish boy, he may be grown in body by not in mind. He chose to return to that field and he chose capture. I should say I do not wish to aid him. Yet as I see it hurts, I will reassure you that with a stubbornness like that boys, he will be fine. You need not fear for him.”   
  
“I do not fear for him.” Warwick snapped.

“You would avenge deaths you do not know to have happened, and in acting so rashly, you will see your own head upon the walls of York and for certes then you’ll see your brother’s. What then are you doing to avenge him?” When Warwick didn’t reply, Faucanberg rested a hand on his shoulder. “I knew Beaufort’s father, the later Duke of Somerset, and I know his son. If John is dead, I can say for certain that so too is he who is responsible.”

***  


It had been a simple mistake, one for which Percy had paid. Henry Beaufort knew that Percy had paid, not just through his new found disfavour, no he had paid with so much more. Somerset could not help but think, he could not help but know that upon the ground somewhere in Yorkshire lay the corpse of his brother’s body.

If Warwick had heard…

He did not have time for prophesising. He did not have time to think like that. If his brother was dead then so be it.

Of course he knew Margaret would scold him for being so cold. Of course he knew his father would have been outraged, for his father had taught him nothing of mercy, of fairness. He had taught him nothing but to avenge the deaths of those who fell. Like he had at Wakefield and now, as he had after Towton.

In truth he now hated that word, hated that little town, hated that field which stood between Saxton and Towton. He hated the snow, he hated everything down to that tiny church which had witnessed it all. He hated what had happened, not that he cared for the common blood nor the carnage. No, he cared because whilst God had been their witness, whilst God had been on their side and whilst he had served them victory, it had been so bittersweet. Edward of York had fallen into their hands, but that did not alleviate those who had been allowed to run free.   
  
Warwick still evaded them, with Edmund in his slimy grasp. Norfolk, he who had not shown his face would have joined them with whatever army he had raised. Faucanberg, he who had so almost died, he who had been cornered, he who had so openly shouted that his nephews should run and offered his life in sacrifice whilst they fled, he who had then escaped by a knife-edge into the snow. They too had more secretive weapons, York’s squire, the man whose family owned part of Leicestershire, the man who could raise men in his own right. Raise men against the king without so much as a knighthood, what had England become? Worst among them was George Neville, a man of the church now joining this damned war. When priests took up arms, then the people grew queasy.

In truth, Somerset could not think that England had ever been healed of the murder of Becket almost three centuries before.

They could not afford to lose another priest so willingly, no matter what his treason.

“Henry.” Margaret interrupted his thoughts, he had not heard her approach, almost tripped as he offered a hurried bow.   
  
“Your Grace-“  
  
“No.” As his eyes rose, he saw she was accompanied by her son, the boy looked bored, disappointed. “You must entertain him, teach him to use a sword or fire a bow, course he knows how but he must show you that he can win. I do not want him pitied, I do not want you to take mercy because he is boy. We must brace ourselves for what must come, and I do not wish that my son be left behind.”  
  
“Madam, it would be my honour, and my privilege.”   
  
“Yes. I will return anon, and when I do, my son, you must show me that you can defeat my lord Somerset.” Beaufort smiled as his Queen pulled her son into a warm embrace, the young prince squirmed under his mother’s unwanted attention as her hands rearranged his hair, she did not speak until she had let him go, holding him at an arm’s length. “Do not cause my lord too much damage Edouard.”   
  
“Where are you going ma mere?” The child gripped her sleeve as she tried to step away. An act which Somerset could not help but hate. The boy may be seven, but whilst he tried to show he was as adult as the men who fought for him, his actions proved he was not. His actions proved that he was not ready for this burden. He was not ready should Warwick reach York. Of course the duke knew this should not concern him, that seven years old is still a boy. Yet at any other time, he would have known the boy had chance to grow, had chance to become a man.

Right now, time was not a luxury they held, and every hand would be required to fight.

“I am going to the dungeons mon chérie.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Clifford's Tower, The City of York.  
April 1461.**

“I will see him.” Margaret of Anjou lifted an eyebrow at the woman before her. “Do not make excuses, if my son is to die then by the Grace of God, I would see him.”  
  
“And if he is already dead?” Somerset spoke on the Queen's behalf, silenced as she raised a hand.   
  
“Henry, please.” She murmured. “Lady Cecily, tell me why I should grant you this privilege? Why I should allow the wife and mother of a traitor to see a traitor prior to his execution-”  
  
“He is alive?” Marguerite saw something in this woman, this once beautiful woman she never had before. Defeat, a defeat shown so clearly in hope, desperation.   
  
“Of course he is alive.” Marguerite snapped. “I would not give him such dignity as a private death for his crimes. His crimes worsened by his silence. Lord knows I have offered him mercy, my gentle side and all for Warwick's whereabouts and yet your boy, your brat? He gives me nothing. Now you, she who is a traitor herself by her own treasonous acts has the brass nerve to demand from me that she be allowed to see a traitor and offer him comfort?”   
  
“Madam you are a mother also, think if it was your own son-”  
  
“But it is not. It is not madam.” Marguerite sighed. “Yet I have a heart, and if it was comfort you should wish to offer him? I would indeed be inclined. Yet how do I know you will not offer him your guidance? Aid him not to inform but to plot treachery?”  
  
“Your Grace, if you think I am not desperate enough! I would not risk the life of my two boys to give another chance to turn his hand to treason. Edward has made his bed, and if you do not think I believe it so? You may accompany me, but I wish to see my son, and I will not leave until it is done.”

 

“You seem to assume you were entitled to simply leave anyway madam?” Marguerite snapped. “In coming here, by your own choice, have you not agreed to submit to me? To my husbands rule and my own authority?”   
  
“If that is what it takes to save my sons? Then very well, I will submit to your authority. Now let me see my son!” Emotion infected every word, as Cecily Neville lose control of the rigid, ruled emotion she had since her youngest years known to exercise. Now she could not, now every part of her being shook. What if, what if Edward was dead?   
  
And what if he was not?  
  
What if he as not dead? Could that indeed be much worse?

 

“Very well.” Marguerite muttered, getting to her feet. “Non, Eduoard. Non. Tu resteras.” The Queen stepped down from the dais. “You, you will follow me.”   
  
“Your Grace.” Somerset spoke. “Would it not be... Well should I not accompany you?”   
  
“I do not think that necessary.” The Queen responded, leading the way from the hall.

 

***  
  
“Edward?” Cecily almost shrieked, falling to her knees beside the bed her son made look tiny. Even at her voice he remained motionless, motionless and covered by little more than a thin rug. “Ned?” His mother shook his arm, pausing as as the shackles rubbed on wood.  

"He will not rouse aunt." The voice was familiar. Cecily Neville cursed herself, for she had not seen him. John Neville sat, clad in blood stained shirt, upon an old stool. "He has been in a fever for some days now." John glared at the French woman as she stood. "At her doing." 

 

"Silence your foul mouth. Be glad I have not dispatched you to hell." Marguerite hissed. "Be glad I allow you the comfort to sit with your cousin." 

 

"Mother." The whisper was so weak Cecily almost missed it. Her eyes shut, emotion almost choked her as the next words left his mouth. "Papa, Edmund? I... I want Edmund." 

 

"Ned.. Oh Ned." She could not speak a moment . Could not bring herself to mutter a word. "He..."

 

"Dead..." Edward whispered, rolling to his side before his eyes fluttered open. "Mother?" Hope was in his voice as he reached for her. "Am I in heav-" his words stopped as his eyes fixed on the woman stood by the door. "Or hell?" 

 

"Edward you are in York."

 

"That is much the same." John said, moving from his stool with effort as his hands were weighed by shackles. "Edward, you must hold strong, do not give her what she wants, because if you do we are dead." John whispered in the younger mans ear, almost silent. "I have played this game too many times and when they have no use for you, your worth is nothing." 

 

"Now is not the time John." Cecily muttered. "Your Grace. Might I have wine, or water? To tend my sons wounds? I beg your grace to let me do so, in private. To allow a mother this one right, her god given instinct to-"

 

"Very well, though a guard will be outside." In truth, Marguerite looked sick. In truth it seemed she could not stomach it. It was minutes before the wine arrived, and with it John Neville left. 

 

"Edward? Do you have strength to sit?" He obeyed, with a slowness making her heart lurch. "Edward, you must recover, you must regain your strength. Your father, he did not die to have you sat as you are at Lancaster's mercy. You will die if you continue in this..." She paused, seeing now the full extent of this damage. The bruises on his body, the dried blood and old lashes, the shredded skin and... She saw as his mouth opened the raw gums... "Oh Ned." Her voice shook. "Jesu, Lord, I pray you give my son strength. Give him guidance and take him under your touch to take him through this."

 

"You think he will listen?" Edward lisped. 

 

***

**Tadcaster, North Yorkshire.**

"God you push me to lose my patience!" Norfolk snapped finally. "Why do we dally! We should be in York tasting the victory we took! Yet we are here, freezing out bollocks off in the snow, and for what? Faucanberg if we do not act? Then I might well act alone."

 

"I swear." William Neville, Lord Faucanberg muttered. "Any man who desserts, I care not if he is a duke of a peasant, I will kill him myself. Do you question my ability my lord?" 

 

"You question my authority-"

 

"Norfolk is right." Warwick muttered. "Why are we waiting? For the longer we wait, the more chance there is of Lancaster catching our trail and of Johnny and Ned being dead. With this bastard here." Warwick pointed to Beaufort. "We could already have spies amongst our ranks. Our army dwindles not grows. whatever you plan uncle, I dare to say it is not working."

 

"Very well, what would you both propose we do? Climb the walls? Siege an entire city? What do you expect of me? We will be shot down by the arrows before we are within sight of those walls. But if you both wish to storm that city? I will not abandon you." 

 

"And you believe in your heart that more men will get us into that city?" Norfolk barked.

 

"In truth? I do not know what would. In truth-" 

 

Silence fell as the sound of running approached. Warwick turned, seeing the boy, panting as he dodged men sleeping through the night. It was only as the boy stopped, handing the parchment to the earl that people breathed as the smirk upon his face followed the earls irritation. 

 

"We have spies within those walls. It seems my wife and daughters are to be kept in the household of the bitch queen. Edward and Johnny, they are both still alive."  


	7. Chapter 7

**The City of York.**

Anne Neville ran, her tiny feet aching as she carried water. Carried buckets of water in small hands. Her head was upright, her back straight. She carried herself as her parents had always told her, as now Somerset did scold her for walking. She would not stop though, she would not admit she was scared of this man, of this man who would bring harm to her. Of this man who made threats in idle promise. He had not so much as laid a hand upon her. Izzy said that was the work of the She Wolf. That Queen Margaret protected them, would ensure no harm came to them until papa was caught. Then they would be forced to hang along side him.   
  
Anne had not believed it. More inclined was she to believe her mother's words. That the Queen did not bring harm to women. That they would not bare any physical marks for the sins of their father. Yet even that Anne had not truly believed. She had heard of Ludlow, had heard how men had been killed and women.. Well they had not had as fair a deal as she and Izzy, and whatever was meant by rape and pillage? Anne knew the Queen had a taste for blood, and it did not matter whose. So, Anne had concluded, it was the working of a guardian angel, it was divine intervention.   
  
It was, as she had heard of Mortimer's Cross, what her cousin Ned would described as proof that God was on the side of the House of York. Except now, now God favoured the House of Neville.   
  
That made her stop. Her little feet unmoving, the buckets soon became too heavy but she did not care. How could God side with the House of Neville and yet John, her sweet uncle, be confined to a cell and bound in chains as she had seen no man so tightly bound?  
  
Of course her mother had explained this to her. Never keen on John Neville, Anne Beauchamp had said the words with little malice and less sympathy. "Your uncle is fool. If he had not protested, made a petty point a large one, then indeed he may have more liberty. As it is, he wishes to see the end of his own house and all by his endless feud with the Percy's. In truth Annie that has been the way since as long as I have known him. He will not see sense beyond that, and it will be his destruction."   
  
She could not think of her uncle's death, but what would happen to her papa? Would he be victim of the Lancastrian axe if John did not forget his feud? 

With that question in her mind she hurried along once again, taking the stairs to the dungeons without hesitation. There she was escorted by a guard. "It aint no place for a girl this."  
  
"I is not your business to comment. Let me in." Anne snapped as though she were a woman more than twice her years. 

The cell was dingy, damp. The bed oversized for the room and the bed sheets too elaborate. Beside the bed sat Cecily Neville. Dowager Duchess of York. "I have lost many sons, but none have been as painful as these last months." The old woman spoke with a voice about to crack.   
  
"He is not dead my lady." Anne spoke, placing the buckets at the beds end, she dipped in cloths, wringing them before handing them to the older woman.   
  
"He will not live. I know it. I have lost enough to know it. Edmund, he died with his father. Edward?" Her voice final choked. She wiped tears before she dabbed the cloth over her sons skin. Anne Neville looked, seeing her cousin motionless in the bed. His skin drained of colour now took a greyish tint, sweat soaked his skin like water in a storm and his eyes, his eyes were dull and hollow. His lips cracked whilst he wheezed. "To add insult to this? The Queen comes to visit, she grants him mercies I did not think her capable of, and she has sent physicians. Yet none can understand what ails him."   
  
***  
  
 **Colton, North Yorkshire.  
Three days later. **

They had ridden hard. Two days riding in this cursed weather. Warwick's mood had turned bitter, and all knew it. He cursed as he paced, trying hard to keep warm. Their tents had been damaged, now they were forced to sleep in the snow. Forced to march on little sleep and less food. 

  
If only to make his sour mood bitter, he had heard news from York. News that his girls were to be used as servants. Neville's, as servants. He had raged at that. Calmed only by his uncle as the man had knocked him back down. "They are better used as servants Dick, for at least they are then alive!"  
  
"Alive and what? Their pride in tatters?"   
  
"Think of more than your pride for Christ's sake! Be glad only that you are all breathing. From there, we can find hope. Your pride, your honour will be regained."  
  
They had talked then in length. In such depth that Warwick had cursed his own brother. "The fool, Anne writes, has challenged Percy."  
  
"John has ever had a will of his own, it does not surprise me."

"I am not surprised but rather enraged! I'd as much like to see that swine of a whoreson Percy swinging by his balls as John would, but there is time for that when John is free and as for now? Now John will see himself killed."  
  
"He lives?"  
  
"He is confined to one lone chamber, and bound I hear in chains. Percy will take pleasure from that."  
  
"It is probably Percy's doing, but your brother can handle himself, I am sure. John is not naive to the threats of being a prisoner unlike-"  
  
"There is no word of Ned. It is like... like they do not wish I know. Why does Anne not mention him?"  
  
"Because there is nothing to mention." Faucanberg offered.  
  
"Nothing to mention? He is Duke of York! Damn it they should find something to mention!"  
  
"He is an attained traitor and your wife? She now plays a diplomat. She may be your spy Dick, but do not take her for granted. She plays a dangerous game."  
  
"You do not think I know that!" Warwick retorted, all bitterness in his voice.   
  
"She is trying to provoke you, Anjou, and she is succeeding. Do not let her make you act rashly and-"  
  
Faucanberg sighed, looking to the young man who stood close by. "What is it Hastings?"  
  
"My lords." The man's voice was a low whisper, his hands shook as he held parchment. "I received word minutes ago from my lady Cecily."  
  
"What of it?" Warwick snapped.  
  
"In the small hours of the morning two days past, the Duke of York died."  
  
"Edward is dead?" Warwick's voice was quiet, he crossed himself. "Hastings, can I trust you man?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
"You must make haste to Utrecht. I would have George and Richard protected. Lord knows they will not be safe now." With a nod Hastings turned, shouting or a horse. "And as for us? They have got themselves a war, and we shall not wait." 


	8. Chapter 8

**The City of York.**

"How?" Marguerite screamed, throwing the goblet at the mirror which smashed. "It does not just happen! You cannot tell me he just died! No one just dies." 

 

Somerset sat silent, eyes downcast as his queen began to fume, venting her rage onto him. "Madam-"

"Do not interrupt me. Edward of York is dead, and I would not mind if he had died the traitors death he had deserved. If we had made a spectacle of it, and men had learnt that you do not defy us. I would not have much minded if he had contracted the plague, so long as he died at the right time. As for now? No, now it is a bloody mess, and I am expected to believe that he simply perished and there was nothing, not a thing which a man could do." 

"Because madam there was nothing that could-"

"Do you think me a simpleton? Nothing anyone could do? That will not matter to Warwick, it will not matter one bit. It will not matter to any Yorkist swine and they will in their anger bring the full weight of hell down upon us. Do you not think that they will not suspect he was tortured? That they will not know that if we had been gentler with the blade, or the whip, or a single thing he might be alive. Instead?" She sighed. "It was not supposed to happen this way."

"He had physicians in attendance and-"

"And Warwick does not know that! Warwick does not know we did not put a knife between his ribs as he slept. He is more desperate and now more dangerous, and we have handed him all he needs for our destruction." She paused. "Where is John Neville? Does he know of this?"

"No madam."

"And Warwick's children and wife?"

"To my knowledge they do not know." Somerset offered. 

"Then good, have them remain in ignorance."

 

***

"You." Warwick snarled as he charged at Edmund Beaufort, rousing him from an uncomfortable sleep. "Tell me why I should not kill you now?" 

For a moment the young Beaufort just stared, just looked on in confusion, apprehension and for a moment fear. That was until he recalled where he was, what had happened and who exactly held the power. Warwick could not kill him without destroying every Neville in York. Both men knew that. Yet it did not stop the rage in Warwick's eyes. 

"You may kill me, and surely are capable. Except you know I am sure that the consequences will be severe." Beaufort smirked then. "Unless of course." He paused, seeing Warwick's eyes change. "My god, this is too good to be true. He is dead isn't he? Your brother John is dead, oh my Lord Northumberland will be delighted-"

"If John was dead you would not be breathing long enough to spew your venom." Warwick hissed. 

"Then who?" Beaufort paused another moment. "York? When?" He did not wait for an answer, he whooped joyfully. "Oh Jesu forgive for this, but my day has just got better and there is hope at last." Beaufort did not care as Warwick clenched his fist, nor as Norfolk stepped forward. "This is proof that God is on our side-"

 

"This is proof that your queen is not adverse to murder!" Norfolk bellowed, clearing the distance between himself and the prisoner in seconds, his hands fixing around young Beauforts throat, he squeezed. 

"That is enough John." William Neville spoke. 

"The hell it is! He will die-"

"No." Faucanberg sounded calm. "Not like this." All eyes were on him, that was until Warwick spoke. 

 

"My Uncle is right. Beaufort will die, but not like this. If he is killed now, so is John-"

"John is dead anyway, has this not proved that?" Norfolk retorted. 

"Mayhap he is, but my wife and daughters are not. We will take Beaufort with us to York-"

"You are to say I must endure this arrogant arse until we reach York?" Norfolk released Beaufort, delivering a punch as the young man went to attack. 

 

"I mean to say you are going to." Warwick offered,  continuing as the Duke snorted. "Edward of York is dead, we cannot change that, if we kill our hostage now we lose all. Edward did not die for our defeat. He died for our victory."

"He may have died with his jaw moving, telling where we are-" One of Warwick's squires spoke. 

"If he did we would be dead. No, he died having held his silence and for that I commend the boy. Now, we are to march on York." 

***

It was queer. 

John Neville sat now above the city, looking over the houses, seeing the bustle. No longer chained, though his chamber was locked, he felt almost like a free man. A liberation he may have been glad for, which may have warmed his heart, except it was so sudden. 

He too had noticed a change, except the relative luxury of his new accomodation. His guards did not change. Only acted in rotation. Each man as silent as the next. No one spoke. No one who may say a wrong word had been permitted into his sights. No one who might speak to him.

  
Three days had past since he had been moved. Three whole days. Long hours to think, to ponder, to understand. Something had changed, and as much was obvious. From the way the world seemed silent, from the way people scurried about, from the way each time he had seen the She Wolf as them let him out to exercise, she had avoided his eye, she had seemed... well he did dare say she had seemed frightened. 

All had of course fallen into place that afternoon. That afternoon when he had seen his aunt, the woman he was so used to seeing composed look so ashen. She had been marched away faster than John Neville could blink. 

He had only seen that look once. Only seen that expression a single time. When a parent lost a child. When he had seen her so close after Wakefield, and now? Now he had drawn one conclusion. From the moment he had been removed from his cousins presence he had known something was wrong. He had known when the bitch had put an end to their company...

He did not have chance to dwell more on that thought. The door opened within seconds, Percy entered. John had risen from his window seat, about the curse when Somserset too entered. "Do not try a thing Neville." Percy smirked. 

 

"You think this lily livered son of bitch will stop me? You owe me blood-"

"I think this lily livered son of bitch wishes to save your own blood John Neville." Somerset spoke clearly. 

"Which is more than you deserve." Percy scoffed, snarling as John rolled his eyes. 

"Enough Henry, if you cannot put aside your petty feud I will lock you in a cell, we do not have time for this." Somerset snapped. Close to losing his composure. John smirked at that, oh Somserset was raw on edge. Something had changed. Something had gone so terribly wrong. 

"What brings you here Beaufort?"

"A proposal, one which might suit you quite well."

"And what do you propose?" John spoke with an ounce of amusement in his tone, already knowing the words which would come from Beaufort's mouth. Already prepared with his answer.

"Join with Lancaster. The King is prepared to offer full pardon to you if you join us."

"And if I do not?"

"You will hang with your brother." Percy snapped. 

"And what is in it for you? Why do you want me? Why am I not already dead?"

"You know Warwick better than any man alive."

"I know him well, yes, that does not mean I know where he is." John shrugged.

"But you know his tactics. You know he will storm York, and we need your help to defend the city."

"You expect me to kill my own brother?" 

"Yes." Percy smirked. "That shouldn't be so hard a task, should it? I have seen your jealousy of him-"

"Firstly." John spoke quietly. "I am not a Percy, I will not kill my kin without heavy heart. Secondly, I think you do greatly underestimate my brother's ability. Have you offered Edward of York such a deal?" The words dropped like an anvil on a toe. "I assume not then. Very well." He paused, eyes closing momentarily. "I accept our proposal. With one condition." 

"What?" Somerset mused. 

"George Duke of York and Richard, his younger brother, be allowed too a full pardon from the attainder raised against them." 


	9. Chapter 9

Freedom had not come easily. John Neville had learnt that quickly, he had known too to keep his thoughts to himself and his nose out of the world of this complex politics. He had known without doubt that though accepted, he was far from welcome.

As a man who had ever be fine with his own company, it bothered him little.

Yet what had come hard was the news he had not wished to hear, dreaded having to deliver.

Anne, his sweet niece Anne, had been promised to Lancaster's brat. A brat who was so arrogant it pained even those closest to him. Though none dared do more than smile, laugh and praise the swine for his every achievement. No matter how great or small, no matter whether it was good or foul.

No matter whom he insulted.

John had almost laughed, and had it not been his own niece, had he been further removed, indeed he may have. For these fools, these brainless fools did not see what they had done. They did not know the enemy they made. For when Warwick heard that without his word, without his authority, his youngest child had been promised in marriage to Edward of Lancaster, a child already so evil the devil would slam the doors of hell upon his face? Warwick himself would march the forces of hell into York if only to slaughter those involved in such a match.

"I do not recall a time you have ever smiled." Percy's voice interrupted Johns thoughts. "I would have thought you would have taken more joy from your new position. In the ranks of the true side, for the first time and you do not cause trouble?"

"I would cause you trouble with each breath that leaves my lungs if only it would be prosperous. As it is? I do not have the energy. Nor do I much think that you are worth my time."

"It would cost you dear you mean."

John snorted. "You think too much of yourself." John smirked then. "From my observation? The queen likes you as much as she would like the plague."

"You value yourself too high you mean." Percy reported. "The Neville grandeur has not left you it seems."

"I do not over estimate my position. I think you forget under what terms I was enlisted? My value is almost twice that of your own, because it is me and not you who is likely to bring victory to Lancaster along with my brothers head."

"Yes." Percy smirked. "Yes I do remember that. Admirable of you, I might say. Except." The earl continued. "I do not believe it. I do not believe that you, John Neville, would be so fickle."

"My, I could almost take that as a compliment."

"You could." Percy followed as John began to walk. "Except I think you miss my point."

"No. I do not. You think I am not capable of anything cept treachery and maybe for once I must give you credit where indeed it is due." Percy paused at that, stopping his walk, looking at John with intent eyes. "Indeed, I am capable of great treachery, and that is why I have joined Lancaster. Because I am a traitor to my brother and loyalty, so if you doubt me, because I am a traitor? Then please, take that as your evidence that I am nothing if I am not serious. I will bring you my brothers head, and if I do not? You're welcome to take my own." Percy did not see as John clasped his hands behind his back, stopping their shaking.

***

He could not have.

Warwick fumed. He could not help but fume. Anne had been betrothed to Edward the whoreson of Anjou. To make a foul situation truly intolerable, John had been released from his dungeon. Released with an agreement that he would turn his coats to Lancaster. John, his own brother, had turned against him.

"The only good bone it seems died with Edward in York." Warwick mused aloud, having drunk perhaps too much ale.

Beside him Norfolk was silent, opposite his uncle rubbed his head. "Dick, do not think of it so simply, would John have betrayed you so easily?" Warwick glared at that. "Think of his motivations.John is not a simpleton. If he has joined forces with Lancaster, he has done so from desperation."

"I do not much care if he has done it with a knife to his throat!" Warwick stood suddenly. "He is a Neville and he should die with loyalty in his heart! He should die fighting for his brother if he cannot fight beside him!"

"No." Faucanberg offered. "He is a Neville and he is nothing if he is not savvy." Warwick scoffed. "He is worth more alive than he ever would be dead."

"Not to me."

"You do not mean that."

"I do not? You are sure? Because I would rather Edward be alive in his place at this moment."

"You do not mean that either." When Warwick snarled Faucanberg continued. "And even if you do. You cannot seek to change it so you must live with it. If John has truly deflected, and we are to win, then have your pleasure in seeing him hang. Yet until we reach York, until you question him, my God Dick, do not act rashly."

"Do not act rashly? What is rash?"

"Beaufort. I do not want you think that since John is now-"

"Beaufort? Yes. Beaufort." Warwick offered a cold chuckle, turning away toward the camp, finding the man whose name he uttered.

He did not hesitate, dragging him back to the group.

"Do not do this Richard! Do not-"

"And why not? I have kept this arse alive for Johnny and now? Now such a deal is meaningless and so Somerset? He shall know my pain."

"Please-" Beaufort muttered, eyes wide as Warwick drew his knife.

It was moments before he drew the blade across the mans throat.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Warwick was coming. 

He was charging toward York with the speed of the Devil. Somerset had heard word from his scouts. The earl was in a rage. His spies had told him much. Edmund was dead. Murdered by Warwick on the road from Tadcaster. Somerset had paused at that, yet his true emotions had not shown. How could they? He could not afford emotions. Could not afford weakness. 

He had pulled John Neville to the side, informing him with bitterness that he was to be in the Queens presence that night. All the while he had resisted his urges to cause Warwick the pain he deserved. He had not pushed a knife deep into John Nevilles gut, and why? What gratitude had that Neville swine paid him?

For now, even in the darkness of midnight, John had not shown and his Queen had raged. "You offered him a pardon in my name?!" 

"In the Kings your grace." Beaufort muttered from his knees.

"In my husbands name? And you did not consult me? You mean to say it is your own authority which rules England?" 

"Some could say." Percy spoke with a cockiness in his tone, one which Somerset so dearly wished to knock from him. "That his father was much the same. Except his father had honour. His father was protector official and his father would never have been so soft as to pardon his enemies."

"I thought your grace that John Neville would make a powerful ally-"

"You did not  
think! A powerful ally indeed! And a treacherous enemy! Christ. You mean to say you truly believed that Neville would side with us? You damned fool. Where is he?"

"I do not know-"

"Has he been searched for?" Margaret snapped.

Somerset had been about to answer, inform her that no, he had not. That he would show, oh he prayed to Jesu that he would show. That was when Percy spoke once more. 

"I myself took the liberty of having the castle searched when it came to my attention that he may not show his face this evening. He could not be found from the top  
to the bottom. So all I can hope is that his neck is broken from  
whatever fall he must have caused himself to escape."

"He is a free man, Henry. He can walk out of the castle without issue." Somerset murmured.

"And whose doing is that?" Margaret barked.

"Except he cannot." Percy smiled. Somerset did not know whether earl sought to defend him, or simply gloat. Either way, he seemed to make the situation worse as Margaret snarled. "I took it upon myself to put my own men at the gates with strict order he is not to leave."  
Not, Somerset silently mused, that it had appeared to stop him. 

 

***

Yes, leaving had been hard. John mused on the thought as he sat on the floor, arse wet from melting ice. Percy had tried, and for that he had given him credit. Except, he had not. It had indeed been convenient that Percy's stupidity had worked well, and it had been as close as a whisker that it would not. For the men who had been stationed at the castles gates were Yorkshire men. Men John had held sympathies with. Men whom he had not found too hard to bring to the Neville cause. 

Now, now he sat in the tower of Micklegate Bar. A move he had regretted, though one he had known essential. For if his predictions were correct, Warwick would advance from Tadcaster with speed. Taking himself without diversion up the Old London Road. A road which would see him pass under Micklegate. It had just been a grizzly inconvenience that those heads still remained, watching over York. At that John had finally lost control of his guts, spluttering vomit over the cobbles before he had entered this tower by force. Force which had seen him victorious in this a achievement. 

He looked up as the sound of boots creaked the floor boards. "M...m...m...y ... L...l..lord." The boys voice shook. 

"It is done?" The child nodded, John reciprocated, taking the last penny from his purse tossing it in the boys direction. He did not stop to think of it, did not think of how his money had gone. He did not think of any of it. All seemed futile. This gamble was nothing in that huge gamble he faced. If this did not succeed, then he was dead, and with him too were so many others.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning 
> 
> Graphic violence within this chapter

Yorks walls were above the men. Like the white cliffs of Dover. John tried to smile, though he could not. He knew Dick, knew he would think it. In truth, John had never seen them, these white cliffs. Yet Dick had, more times than John could count, and never did he miss an opportunity to brag. John did smile then, wider than he had in many years as he looked out onto the road below, seeing Warwicks men gathering, their weapons sharpened. He recalled a time in his childhood, when John was no more than ten. Ten years old and left alone with the women of the household. The women and George. George the little swine as he had been. So innocent and good, so damned perfect. John, easily tired of his youngest brothers perfection, he had almost bounced on Dick as he strutted into Middleham. John had soon been instantly enamoured to the tales of France. Of how Dick had know he was home from the white rock... And now... Now he could not help but wonder if looking at these walls Dick felt the same. 

He did not have time for such trivialities. 

"My lord." He had not noticed the men that stood behind him, startled as they spoke. They did not draw a attention to it. "All is in place." He nodded, dismissing them with a hand. 

Once they were gone he exhaled, eyes closing as he hesitated a moment. He looked around then, seeing the papers littered around the room. Three days he had been planning. Three days he had been holding back the onslaught. Watching as Lancastrian troops lost the walls, fort one by one. He had watched as though in charge of guarding the city turned not to Lancaster but to him. All except at Bootham Bar. That now was their only stronghold, except the castle, their defences now dwindling as the city rose against them. 

Yet hours of anxiety had followed. Days of resistance on both parts, he had watched through locked doors as men had defended the walls on his behalf. And how he had longed, begged silently that he might be in a position to defend them himself. Yet his anxiety had not been due to this onslaught. No, it had stemmed from the risk of deflection, that and Warwick may take a wrong turn, might find himself at Bootham Bar and then... This plan was as useful as writing to a blind man. Dick would perish, and with him, soon after would John.

Yet now as he looked over, seeing Dicks army below, he could not help feel another worry. A worry that Dick might die, or worse... 

That Dick might live and might reject him...

Damage could not always be undone. Damage which should never have been, damage which Dick might not have seen as necessity. 

"Christ." John muttered. "Lord make this work. Jesus be with us." His hands clenched into fists before he reached for his sword.

***

Somerset cursed. He had been roused from his bed, from an uneasy night sleep. The dawn sun had barely risen when the tapping had come on his door. The tapping which had followed endless cannon fire, had disturbed the shouts from outside. "The earl of Warwick approached."

He had cursed at that. Cursed at the young man. "Christ I have Montagu to deal with and now? Now? Will I ever be rid of these tiresome leeches that are the Nevilles?" 

He had grimaced to hear Percy's voice. "I have for years asked myself that."

Somerset had since learnt there was to be no ridding himself of them. That night amid the chaos, Monks Bar had fallen to Neville control and with it an armoury was theirs. The walls almost in their entirety. Worst, any hopes he had held that Warwick may march upon the last gate under Lancastrian control had been shattered. Instead Warwick now held his men outside the bar at Micklegate. 

"We cannot even hold the damned gates." Percy shouted as he hurried toward Somerset in the castles hall. "We can hold our defenses here but not for long."

"We can hope John Neville has not deflected..."

"You can hope what you want, in all your naivity." Percy mocked. "It will do you no good. The best we can hope is that he is dead, but I am sure I would have heard. So we must instead prepare." 

"No." Somerset started. "You are right. We must prepare." Percy nodded, about to send an order to his men. "Go, take several men, you are to go to the walls, where you must order men to turn against the Nevilles. If you cannot? Take Micklegate back by force." Somerset turned on his heels. Pausing. "I say Percy, I would not trust another except you with this task. So do not come back to me unless John Neville and his whoreson brother are dead. I need new heads to replace Yorks on the walls." 

Percy had nodded, submitting as skin drained of colour.

*** 

Warwick had been sick. Violently sick. He had not been able to control it. He had not known what he had expected. The skulls of his kindred was one he had unconsciously expected. Yet the head of his cousin, of Ned, so young next to that of Edmund? He had not stomached that. 

"They beheaded him? Executed him? Because he would not join Lancaster."

"John did not suffer the same I note." Warwick responded to Norfolk. The duke said nothing , frowning and Faucanberg approached. 

"We will storm the gates?" 

"In time." Norfolk responded. "I am waiting for word-"

"Waiting for word?" Faucanberg snapped. "And until then we are sitting ducks awaiting the arrows of Lancasters archers? Have you lost all sense? Look at where we are! We are below the wall. We do not have the canon you held at St Albans, where we lost! If they fire we have no defence!" 

"And they have not, do you not see what this means?" Norfolk spoke quietly, eyes dull. In truth, he felt exhausted. In truth this had become too much for him. He would never forgive himself so long as he lived. Could not shake the thought as he looked at the head of young York. Had he been faster to reach Towton, had his health not been ailing, had he made a different decision Ned may still be alive... 

On cue, Warwicks hand touched the Dukes bicep, only then did Norfolk realise where his eyes were fixed. "He chose to return to the field. Damn it man he cannot be helped now. Now we must seek victory for George and-"

"Dick!" Warwick looked to the wall, eyes fixing on the face he'd usually have been over joyed to see. Instead he felt an anger he'd never known before. 

"Have you come to negotiate on their behalf brother? Come to fire upon us if we will not surrender? Well, I will not, and wasn't I surprised to find that you would turn against me and-" his words were cut off as John held the head of Henry Percy over the wall.


	12. Chapter 12

**York Minster**

 

For the first time in as long as she could remember, Cecily Neville was truly conflicted. She did not know who to support, she did not know what to do.   
  
She had acted before Edward's body had turned cold. No sooner than the last breath had passed through his lips, she had reached for the quill. Word had been sent to William Hastings, word which instructed clearly what had to be done. Word which said that he, and only he, was to collect her sons from the continent. It had not been hard to send word to him from there, on his way to the coast, she had sent message to him that he was to deliver the boys to her and not Warwick. That however had been a plan which had failed. Whether their paths had crossed, or the earl had made a more persausive case to her husbands young squire, the boys now were held in Warwick's camp.   
  
That was why she was conflicted. That was why as she prayed to God, to Mary, to all the saints, she also cursed.   
  
The dowager duchess did not think it vanity to believe she was intelligent. Not simply intelligent but wise. Years of war, years of need to watch exactly where she trod, to plan three conversations ahead of the moment had taught her never to place all hopes in one place. She had of course been aware of what might happen. When she had visited John Neville in his cell, when she had informed him of what he must do, when she had persuaded Somerset to release John from his cell to entice Warwick. She had hoped that would bring Warwick to them with God speed, but it had not. It had not and so she had to play on more extremes. She had persuaded Queen Marguerite, despite her better judgement, to frame a false betrothal between Anne Neville and Edward of Lancaster.   
  
That had of course brought Warwick to the walls of York, and now she heard the shrieks and screams outside as Yorkists took the walls they now defended.   
  
Of course Warwick did not know the truth. He could not know the truth. Cecily Neville had known that within this war no one was safe, Ludlow had proven that, Wakefield had reinforced it in iron. No man's word could now be trusted, and so, she had prepared suitably for any outcome. If Warwick won this battle, her son George would be king. Of that she did not fear, of that she had no reason to fear. No Neville themselves could sit upon the throne and so George, her sweet boy George, would be king. Yet if they did not?

 

She had found that thought hard to stomach at first. She had found it difficult to swallow as she had written the letter to Hastings so soon after Edward had perished. Yet she had not had time to dwell on grief, she did not have time to grieve at all. That was why she had seen Marguerite that night, that was why she had not rested until she had got what she had wanted. The true marriage would occur between her daughter Margaret and Edward of Lancaster, a natch she had liked no more than that between her daughter Anne and that foul duke, Exeter. Yet she had remembered her husbands words as she had known he would be wrath at this decision. She had remembered his words as comfort, reassurance, though now she paid penance.   
  
_Times of great political peril Cis, the require actions of great boldness... Actions of great boldness that on the surface, may not seem right..._

_  
_

And it did not seem right, no it did not. Yet it had been all she could do to secure the safety of her sons. It was all she had been able to do to bring comfort to herself... 

 

***

 **The Shambles, York**  
  
John Neville jumped over the gutter. Pwrhaps, he thought, he should not have a smile on his face. He should not feel what was undeniable joy over this. Blood pooled between the cobble stones, and frequently, he had to skip to avoid crimson puddles, but he did not care, he was free. Free from the grips of the she wolf and this had been an astounding victory. An astounding victory made in part, by him. 

 

Across the city there was destruction. John had tried to reign in his troops, had tried too to command Warwick's for his brother was all but absent amongst this mess, yet such attempts had been futile. Dark streaks could be seen on walls, windows were smashed over the floor, bodies strewn like straw on the floor. At any other time, John may have been sick, under any other circumstances, he was sure in fact that he would have. 

 

That thought was stopped, his feet stilled as he saw movement ahead. "You whoreson!" The shout came in time for John to raise his sword. He did not need to see the man clearly for him to recognise the voice.   
  
"Henry, you have lost-"  
  
"You treacherous-"  
  
"Now, that will not help you." John smirked, stepping forward slowly. He saw as Beaufort limped. Saw as he tried with futility to lift his sword. John hesitated a moment, had been about to drop his sword, except he did not. Instead he raised it higher, Somserset blocked twice before he fell to the ground. John did not miss his opportunity.  
  
***

 **Cliffords Tower, York.**  
  
"Find them!" Warwick barked from the hall of the castle. "For God's sake find them or I'll kill you all!" He did not have the patience for this, he did not have the time. Why had they not done as they were told? Why had they not stayed in the damned tent? He had begun to pace, all thoughts running through his mind. What if they had strayed too far, what if they were lost? What if they had fallen in the river or... what if they had been caught up in the fighting?  
  
No, he cursed outward. He did not have time to think on this, not now. So much to be done. He had already ordered their gaurdian be flogged. As if he had not enough to concern himself with, than the fate of two small boys. Two small boys, he had to remind himself, that were of too much importance to be lost. Yet that thought, the knowledge that one such boy would be England's king, was not enough to sooth him. So much had happened in so few hours, Norfolk was injured, like to die.   
  
The city of York had fallen, and slaughter had ensued, a bloody revenge for Wakefield which Edward, had he lived, would never have allowed to happen. The fool. Warwick could imagine the words, could hear his voice ever so faintly. 

_I will not see what happened to Ludlow happen to another town._

 

Christ his precious Ludlow... Yet that was all in the past, and now he was dragged to the present as people began to file into the hall. Among them was the face of the man he had so feintly hoped would die in battle, would spare him what needed to be done. Warwick did not speak as he charged toward John Neville, gripping him before he threw him to the floor. "I'll have his head." Warwick screamed. "Get him out of my sight!" The Earl said nothing more, charging out of the hall.   
  
Now he would find the boys himself. 


	13. Chapter 13

  
Warwick was silent as the doors opened to the great hall. Silent as he sat in the chair of estate, silent as he sat like the King of England himself. George looked at the floor, hand held in John Neville'a firm grip. The world was silent, so silent a pin could have been heard as he stopped, looking forward with fear filled eyes. York had become a cesspit of blood and guts, a place of fear and of terror - for those who lived did so in angst.

Yet George had been told he would not, could not be harmed. Could not, yet his brothers heads lined the walls of York and he had seen it. Edward who was invincible dead and beheaded.

"Your Grace." Warwick spoke finally in a booming voice that made the young man jump. George Plantagenet watched as the Earl moved from the chair, out stretching his hand toward it. "Your throne awaits." John had begun to walk the lad forward when Warwick held up a hand. "Stop, do not move, traitor." John froze, eyes wide as he looked to Warwick as the man he had once known approached, guiding the boy up the dais. "On your knees, John. On your knees and beg. Beg that I see it fit for you to rejoin us in victory for I do not take lightly a man who turns his coats-"

"For the right reaso-"

"There is no right reasons!" Warwick snapped.

"To get you your victory. My men ensured your safe entry into York. And this is how you repay me? I kept these boys safe! I myself slaughtered Somerset and yet you say I am a traitor?" John scoffed. "That is rich coming from the man who acts already as though he is king himself. What gives you that right?"

"Stop." George's voice was so small it was almost unheard above the adults harsher tones.

"I won this victory! I fought to achieve this-"

"And not without my aid. I suffered for it and I watched as-"

"I said stop!"

"Your grace." John muttered, putting his hand on the boys arm. "I apologise, I almost over stepped-"

"You did not almost, and as for you my lord Warwick, I do not know how you dare to slander the man who saved me and who nursed my eldest brother in his darkest hours." At that Warwick was silent. "I do not know how you call him a traitor when, in my eyes, his name should be sung from these very walls. It was not he who left Dickon in the city, loosely guarded, when war was to be made. Nor was it he who endangered his king in such a manner."

"But your grace-" Warwick began.

"Do not. I can't bear it. Just don't." He took a shaking breath. "Now leave me. I said leave me! Not you." He gripped John's arm. "I want you to fetch my mother, Dickon too, and Meg. I want them now, then you are to leave me."

"As you wish your grace." John dipped a bow.

***

"It is in his interest that I am protector." Cecily spoke, clearly, facing the men that surrounded the table. "He has requested it, and I see no reason to object-"

"You are a woman madam." Norfolk spoke. "Dowager duchess you may be, but you-"

"Are the boys mother and the most qualified therefore to do so. He has requested myself or Dickon."

Warwick whistled. Placing his palms flat on the table. "Aunt, between a woman and a child? Do you expect we should listen to this?" John sat opposite his brother, a small smirk on his face. "I do protest-"

"I expected you might." Cecily shook her head. "Does my son, the kings, will mean nothing?"

"His father would never have permitted-" Norfolk began.

"And if his father was here to forbid such, there would be no issue to contend with my lord Norfolk. As it is-"

"Warwick should act as protector." Norfolk interrupted. "He is most qualified and madam you may serve your son as well as an advisor. It would be more appropriate do you not think-"

"No."

"Does Geor- the king state why he will not have anyone but yourself as his protector aunt?" John mused.

"He does not trust the men who argued over his family, and in his words, are so deep in this bloodshed he does not know which side they serve." Cecily seated herself.

"Lines have been blurred for all." Norfolk interjected. "None do see each other with clarity any more. The lad will be persuaded and in time will learn to trust-"

"No. He will not trust a one of you alone."

"Then madam we are at quite the stalemate." Norfolk spoke. "I will not see a woman as protector of a boy king. We would as well have a mad man back on the throne. Then all we have lost was for nothing." Whatever cheers of agreement expected were silent.

Cecily closed her eyes briefly. "Sir, in case you forget I know the loss we face more than a single one of you around this table. I have lost two sons and a husband to this cause, and the innocence of two more boys, so do not speak to me of loss like you have experienced more, my lord. I am as well placed as any to take this role, but that is why I make to you my lords this suggestion. That my sons minority be with a regency council of which I shall be head." She held up her hand to Norfolk. "I think I have heard quite enough from you my lord. I know your opinion and whilst I respect it, my son does not. He is aware of my intentions, for I spoke with him in depth once he awoke this morning and he has agreed, and only under those terms."

"Each man here shall be upon the council?" Warwick spoke.

"Yes."

Warwick nodded. "Then I am in favour."

"I too." John agreed.

Norfolk sighed. "Then so am I."

 


End file.
